Slippery When
by Cartographical
Summary: Castle, Beckett, and the Ferrari go to Connecticut. Chapter 2 is co-written with Cora Clavia and shimmeryshine.
1. Chapter 1

**Notes:** This takes place some magical future in which Castle and Beckett have lots of sex. Its existence is owed to Jill, who I guess is not a horrible person despite how intensely mean she is to me, and you wouldn't be reading it if Cora Clavia hadn't lovingly (or, well, at least persistently) pestered me into posting it.

**Disclaimer:** If Castle and Beckett were mine, that Ferrari would see a lot more action.

**Spoilers: **Lucky Stiff, vaguely.

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><p>The engine hums as Castle accelerates out of a particularly hairpin curve. Trees and asphalt and her life flash before her eyes. Beckett discreetly digs her nails deeper into the smooth leather of her seat.<p>

"We survived dinner. I would be so disappointed if we burned to death in a flaming wreck when we were only an hour from Manhattan," she says, pushing her hair off her cheek yet again. She's only been in the Ferrari a handful of times, never outside the city, and all of her experiences with the car in the traffic-crammed streets of Manhattan had led to appealingly windblown curls. Gusting along the Merritt near Trumbull at a cool eighty is a different experience, and now that Castle's driving, she has nothing except her fear of imminent death to distract her from her hair whipping repeatedly into her eyes.

"Hey," Castle says, a reproachful whine creeping into his tone, "you _promised _that if I was on my best behavior during dinner with the Yalies that I could drive home and you would keep the critiques to a minimum."

"I think we both let you get away with a rather lenient definition of best behavior," she says, even though, all things considered, he'd done quite well - he hadn't started spouting theories about little green men or the CIA, he hadn't knocked a plate of chicken cacciatore off the table, and he had generally managed to be polite and charming despite the increasingly looming potential of Mr. and Mrs. Metzger's son marrying his only daughter.

"If I'd been anything less than intensely enrapturing you never would have let me behind the wheel."

"And I wouldn't be staring down the barrel of my impending death," she retorts, huffing in irritation as her hair tangles around her neck.

"It's not like you're not entirely terrifying when you're driving this much horsepower."

"Yes," she growls, "but then _I'm _driving."

"Do you know what you need?" Castle asks brightly. Something in his tone makes her wary.

"A seat on the Amtrak?" she bites out as he drops down to fifth to hug another curve.

"You need a distraction," he continues, ignoring her. He kicks back up to sixth but then slows a little, scooting over to the right lane and flicking his eyes briefly over her in a way that can mean nothing good.

He moves his hand from the gearshift to rest just above her knee. She's suddenly hyperaware of the smooth silk of her dress, sliding over her thigh an inch above his pinkie, of the heat of his fingertips, resting lightly on her leg, of the slow ignition of a coil of warmth in her stomach.

His fingers absently skitter patterns on her skin. "Twenty questions?" he asks.

She wants to hit him. She lets the feeling shine through.

His fingers inch up to the edge of her dress, worrying the silk between his fingers as he chances another quick glance at her. "Okay, not twenty questions. Punchbuggy?"

His index finger inches under the dress. A low, pulsing heat races up her leg, swirls between her hips. She thinks back to the murder victim they found behind a dumpster at the edge of Central Park after a two-week heat wave. _Bloated bodies_, she tells herself, _decaying, bloated bodies_.

"No? We could try mental chess again. I promise not to call you a cheater this time."

"You're about to lose the hand, Castle," she warns.

"Just being friendly," he says happily, sliding his fingers up another half inch. "You wouldn't maim me, would you, Beckett? How would I write? How would I feed our legions of unborn children?"

"Legions?" she asks on an exhale, sounding far more breathy and far less angry than she'd hoped.

"You seem very fertile," he supplies as his fingers dance inwards.

"Get your hand off of me and watch the road." She curses the husky rumble of her demand.

"I have," he says, hand slipping ever higher, "this amazing ability to multitask, Beckett."

The pad of his thumb brushes over her lace-covered hip. She shifts in irritation. (She does not squirm with arousal. Kate Beckett does not do that.)

"Castle. We are driving down a _public highway_."

"It's _Connecticut_," he responds divisively. "It's _Connecticut_ on a Monday at midnight. Maybe a raccoon will see us." Somehow, she's let his hand creep even higher. His fingers flit over the very top of her underwear, fluttering over the soft skin of the bottom of her stomach.

"I think you have some misconceptions about the Nutmeg State," she says.

He chuffs. "Any state so obsessed with such a sexy spice cannot _possibly_ have any problem with what we're about to do." His hand starts creeping downward.

"And what, exactly, are we about to do?"

Grinning, he shifts so that his whole palm rests flat against her stomach. The ache that's been building tightens, and she has to clamp her teeth over her lower lip to keep her breathing regular.

"Why Detective Beckett," he says, trailing his hand in lazy circles just above the top of her panties. His fingers slide down suddenly, rough over lace, and she can tell from the goddamn grin spreading across his face that it's immediately obvious how wet she is, "I didn't know you cared."

"It's too bad," she gasps, "that you won't live to walk Alexis down the aisle."

He presses hard against her for an instant. Her pelvis jolts up involuntarily. The nylon of the seatbelt bites into her hipbones.

"Foul ball, talking about my only daughter, talking about my only daughter getting _married_, when we're engaged in such intimate activity."

"You _should _be engaged in driving," she says, but it comes out as a breathy gasp as he traces ever-more-firm circles over her panties.

He doesn't respond with words, just nudges his hand beneath her underwear, and then his fingers are on her, unencumbered by silk or lace, stroking gently. Her hips buck harder up against the seatbelt. She tugs against the restraint, stares down at the release button, briefly considers the possibility of just taking the damn thing off. Castle must catch her gaze out of the corner of his eye, because he tsks. "Safety is important, Beckett. I must insist that the seatbelt stays on."

She glances over at him, at that stupid self-indulgent smirk on his face that betrays how proud of himself he is for getting her this worked up. "Stop looking so goddamn satisfied," she growls.

He dips his index finger into her in response. The seatbelt's going to give her a hideous bruise if she can't keep her hips from jerking so hard. "Now, Beckett, why would I be satisfied?" He stills his now-rhythmic motions for a beat, and she grinds up against him, huffing in frustration.

"Oh, come on," she finally grits out, trying to dampen the need behind the words with an exaggerated eye roll.

"You're right. That was rude," he says, starting up again in earnest.

Her breath hitches. His gaze, still fixed on the road, turns serious, intent, an expression she can't quite handle as they whip down the Merritt at an easy seventy-five. She shifts, stares into the darkness over the passenger door. The next few minutes hurtle by in a haze of sensation:

The silhouettes of trees, etched out of the shadows, whipping past, too quickly for her eyes to grab onto any one.

Her hair lashing against her cheeks, her throat, her neck.

The smooth, soft leather of the seat giving slightly as she grips, digs her fingers in.

The wind, cold on her forehead, on her arms, on her exposed thighs (her dress rucked up around her hips, providing no protection from it).

The hammer of her heart against her sternum, not quite drowned out by the whistle of rushing air.

Castle's fingers, filling her, the heel of his hand bumping against her clit.

Heat, pooling low in her stomach, fizzing through her body, building, building...

Abruptly stopping. His hand is resting demurely on the gear shift before she even quite registers it's gone.

"What the _hell_, Castle?" she snaps, but then she sees the higher headlights of a pickup, and a Ford F350 is whisking by them doing what's got to be a brisk ninety, and she's feeling her right bicep tense in a primal desire for a gun.

"Sorry," he says, not looking particularly apologetic at all.

The truck is gone and his hand is back before she can get berate him, and he has her back to where she was in the quarter mile it takes to get them past the last Greenwich exit. And then she can't feel the wind or the leather, can't see the car or the trees – there's only the warmth of his hand and the coil of pleasure and desire and need tightening and tightening and tightening.

Her breath catches and her hips jerk into the air, punching up hard against the seat belt, and a low moan reverberates in her throat before coming out as an embarrassing, breathy pant.

"I think I like the Nutmeg State," Castle murmurs, carefully drawing his hand away. She jumps as his fingers brush over her hipbone.

"This is _not_ our new Connecticut activity," she says, trying to sound acerbic or at least disinterested, but the ripples of her orgasm soften her tone.

"Really? Because I strongly feel that we succeeded in livening up an otherwise slightly banal evening," he says, beaming brightly.

"You're far too pleased with yourself," she murmurs, relaxing back into the seat and letting her eyes slip partway shut. For some reason, she's not minding the tangle of her hair around her neck as much as she was earlier.

"I'm sure your retaliation will be swift and brutal," he says. It used to disturb her, how easily he can tell she's plotting something, but now it's almost comforting.

"Oh, Castle," she murmurs, letting her voice lapse into her bedroom sotto. "You have no idea."

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><p>X<p>

Reviews make me poke my head out of the awkward turtle shell I crawled into right after posting my first M fic.


	2. Chapter 2

So, the summary says that this chapter was "co-written" with Cora Clavia and shimmeryshine, but, I'm going to be real with all of you here, the two of them did nearly all of the work (because I am slow and lazy and sometimes porn scares me and then I have to run and hide under the table). But now I get to take all the credit, and I kind of am secretly hoping that my entire life will start to work out exactly like this fic has. The part where I get credit for other people's work, that is. Well. The porn part, too.

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><p>She's slumped in the passenger seat in a lazy post-coital haze (and really, after her first year of college, this was not a situation she ever expected to be in again) when she notices how tightly Castle's hands are wrapped around the steering wheel, clenched at 10 and 2 like it's his first time driving. The lines of his shoulders are rigid, his back, usually bowed in a casual arc, is ramrod straight, and - <em>oh<em>. She doesn't even try to hide her predatory grin.

Castle, always freakishly in tune with her, must sense the change, because he's suddenly glancing over. He swallows, shifts a little at her look. "What?"

"Now who's tense?" she asks, feeling sated, feeling dangerous. She stretches her arms high above her head, rolls her neck languorously, lets her left palm fall down onto the sleek fabric of his slacks just above his knee.

The noise of the wind is not quite enough to drown out the low growl that rumbles around the back of his throat as he shifts, his quad jumping under her hand. "Not that I don't. Um..." He trails off as she drags her nails lightly upwards. "Driving, Beckett," he finally grits out, the muscles of his throat already working.

"I thought you said you were good at multitasking," she purrs.

* * *

><p>She's not - not <em>seriously<em>-

And then her hand is sliding higher, thumb catching on his waistband as her long, sure middle finger ghosts its way up the inseam of his pants, entirely too casual. Her slow drag gains more pressure and his right hand jerks from the steering wheel, attempting to still her but only succeeding in pressing her fingers down harder. The smirk that she tries to hide is overshadowed by his groan.

"You don't want me to help you drive?" she breathes into his ear, and, _wow,_ that is not going to help him drive _at all_. The sound of creaking leather reaches him as she turns in her seat, her motion limited by the safety belt, but then she's angled towards him, and he's gritting his teeth, clenching the steering wheel with his left hand as he uses his right to pull hers away from his lap. She hums in disapproval. He steadfastly keeps his eyes on the road. Don't look at her. Don't look at those dark eyes, that red mouth, the flush over her cheeks that he just gave her when he put his hand -

"Maybe just hold that thought till we're back home?" he manages, tightening his grip on her hand still as she tries to reach back down. She's leaning over and her breath is hot and thready across his face, crumbling his resolve because she knows _exactly_how to touch him, but this is better, this is safe -

But then she's moving again, and he's only just got time to realize what's happening as she catches his wrist and tugs his hand closer and then his index finger is enveloped in her mouth, hot and wet, and then her tongue _swirls_ and the hard jerk of the steering wheel at the feel of it is the only thing that keeps him from losing it completely. Adrenaline pumps through his veins as a car honks loudly somewhere to their right, and he feels her smiling around his finger as he clumsily tries to navigate back into his own lane. Her lips tighten around his knuckle as she lets him slide over her tongue and out into the cool air. She blows on him lightly, as if he needs any more stimulation, taking a little nip with her teeth before leveling him with a dangerously mischievous grin. He can hardly tear his gaze away from the way she's looking at him, all but climbing over the emergency break and into his lap, and it's all he can do to keep one hand on the wheel instead of reaching to drag her over. He needs more _hands_.

She has hands though, feels like a _hundred_ hands as she reaches for his lap again, and her fingers are raking up his thigh and sneaking downward and he just _can't_ and it's too much and he needs to drive straight because if a cop pulls him over it's going to be so horribly embarrassing to explain the painfully obvious bulge in his pants (though the evil smirk on her face might be explanation enough) and he's not _oh fuck, Kate_, not -

Her fingers curl around his zipper and his blood is rushing south so fast, so hot, he half wants her to keep going because she's so fucking _sexy_ but this is so wrong, this is _so _unsafe.

"Kate." His voice is rough. He swallows hard. "Kate, this isn't a good idea."

Her hand stills (he supposes that's a good thing) and then withdraws (probably also a good thing) and he's taking deep breaths, telling himself _just wait, New York isn't so far now, we'll get back to the loft and I can push her up against the kitchen counter _-

"Castle." Her voice is low and throaty and smoky and heavy with sex and danger and maybe this isn't - "Pull over."

"What?"

"Pull the car over."

Does she honestly mean - is she really asking him to -

"_Now_." His body responds to her command like she's got him across an interrogation table, wheel angling them to the side of the road before he can even really check that the path is clear. He can see her fingers grab for the emergency brake to steady herself, slender fingers wrapping suggestively as he glances down, her eyes darkening at his reaction, but isn't this exactly what she wanted? Him out of control and desperate for her?

The wind stops flicking her hair around the second he jerks the car to a stop, leaving it wild and in her eyes and she looks _ravaged_ except she's the one already advancing on him like she's going to eat him alive. His eyes drop to her mouth at the thought, and he watches her deliberately lick her lips, the moisture that clings there making her tongue look wet and perfect and _fuck_he wants to yank her to him, crush her mouth to his, kiss her hard and hot and dirty until he can swallow that filthy smile of hers.

He flicks a glance at her eyes, wide and dark and so dangerous, so _feral_ that it's _lethal_, and then she's releasing her seat belt, clicking his off, her fingers following the strap across his chest, and he takes a slow breath, because at this rate he is absolutely going to embarrass himself -

"Just relax, Castle." Her whisper is soft, gentle, and it almost helps, really. He manages to suck oxygen into his lungs, his eyes flickering shut, because there is no possible _way_-

It's so quick. The soft pressure of her fingers on his thigh. The sharp tug as she expertly undoes his zipper. The sudden rush of air leaving his lungs as her hand slips inside. And then she's all over him, her fingers hot and firm and _stroking_, her mouth a whisper away from his.

She tugs a shallow kiss from him, barely connecting, stealing his breath more than anything as she rests her forehead against his, pulling him free of his pants, letting her thumb drag up and over him.

"How do you want me?" she exhales into his mouth as her fingers start moving again, and he has to deliberately tense his hip muscles so he doesn't completely fly off the seat at her. She's doing this on purpose, this wild, naughty, _calculating_ creature he's somehow gotten lucky enough to call _his_, she knows just how to press his buttons in every single way imaginable. Words are his domain, but when she's wielding them like this, in his ear, in his mouth, he's certain he'll never be able to write another sentence ever again.

"Castle..." she whispers, letting her tongue slide into his mouth, stroking against his with the same exact rhythm her hand is pumping in his lap. He has to weave his fingers into the back of her hair to pull away from her, tugging a little too sharply as she lets him separate their mouths with an obscene sucking noise that goes straight to his dick. He leaves his fist there, tangled in her hair as his eyes immediately trip to her mouth, he knows what he wants her to do and _so does she_ but she's not moving until he _asks_.

"I want - I - "

Her finger caresses the tip of him lightly. His eyes roll back, his hand in her hair clenching, his legs cramping painfully. _Fuck_.

"Say it, Castle."

He can't look at her, can't, just _can't_. Not when she's like this.

Her soft breath flutters over his cheek. "Do you want me to _fellate_you, Castle?"

_Fuck_. A helpless noise escapes his throat. Her hand is still _touching_him like that.

He shuts his eyes.

"Is that what you want?"

His throat is finally working, producing coherent sound. "_Yes."_

She smiles, pressing her smug grin against his cheekbone. "Was that so _hard_?" she asks, twisting her palm just the way he likes it. Hard. Yes.

He doesn't speak then, just uses the grip on her hair to give her a little push, closes his eyes so he doesn't have to see the look she shoots him for even trying that. He feels her head drop though, holds his breath as he waits for the feel of her tongue to replace the feel of her fingers, waits for that warm, heavy wetness, but it doesn't come.

"You're not going to watch?" she pouts, breath skirting across the dampness already accumulating at the head of him, making him twitch. He does open his eyes then, watching her under heavy lashes as she glances up at him, so close to where he wants her.

She holds eye contact as she leans in, drops an open mouthed kiss on the underside of him, that first touch of her lips enough to make him groan, his hips jerking involuntarily. Her tongue flicks out, wet and pink and dragging over his painfully aroused flesh and his free hand is clutching desperately at the driver's side door and he's gasping and it's too much, too much, too good -

Her mouth closes around him, lips soft and wet, tongue pressed against him, and then she _sucks_ and he can't help the loud moan that escapes him, his fingers curling tight in her hair as she hollows her cheeks again and again. It's all liquid fire after that, bursts of heat because of her _mouth_ and then her hand is cupping and _god_is that the back of her throat? He can feel the sharp prick of her nails into his hipbone as he realizes he's trying to rise to meet her rhythm, feels her try to hold him down as she works her magic, and she's so fucking good at this he almost can't believe it.

Her mouth slides off of him with a slow suck then, leaving him aching and wet in the open cab of his Ferrari. "Hold still," she pants, out of breath from having him in her mouth and _oh god oh god_he has to grip the door even harder because even thinking about what she's doing to him is almost too much at this point.

"Beckett, I'm -" he starts to say, but she presses a hand up to his mouth to quiet him, levels him with a dark look, a smoldering look, and even just her fingers on his lips is suddenly so erotic that his mouth gets dry and _fuck_this is such a reckless, stupid -

And then she leans back in and his mouth opens on a soundless moan as her lips take him again. She works him harder this time, tongue curling over the tip of him, and he throws his head back, body clenching as she sucks firmly, fingers tracing over him, rhythm getting steadier and faster and _fuck_ he can't stop the _shit_ incoherent noises from escaping his throat as _fuck_ her head is bobbing up and down in his lap and he's clutching at her hair, the door, the steering wheel, anything, and the ache is unbearable and tightening and _fuck_ and _oh fuck_ and she just keeps _sucking_ and oh _fuck_ he just _can't _- _ahh_.

Stars burst behind his tightly squeezed eyelids as he finally gives in, feels her grunt softly around his length, a dirty hot rush of pure bliss spilling from him and into her mouth because she doesn't _stop_, only goes and goes and then he can feel her swallowing around him and he thinks he breathes her name like a prayer to the sky above because _god_he really does completely fucking worship her.

The leather at his ear creaks softly as his head lolls back against the headrest, eyes blinking up at the starry night as he sits completely still, just feeling her. She's being gentle now, enough that it snags in his throat because whenever they do this it's never just _sex_ and he suddenly has the completely overwhelming urge to grab her and just _kiss her_.

So he does, grab her, putting his palms on both of her cheeks and pulling her right up to his mouth, kissing her soundly until she disengages, breathing shakily into the scant space between their lips.

"Hey," she laughs breathily, pressing her hand to his cheek gently, and her palm is warm and sweaty and it's because of _this_and he's still having trouble breathing.

"You." He kisses her again, teeth tugging lightly at her bottom lip. "You're unbelievable."

Her fingers tangle with his as she kisses him back, the frantic need gone, replaced by this warm glow that's softer and relaxed and so _sated._"You like that?"

He groans, still slumped in his seat. "Just. Unbelievable."

She rests her forehead against his shoulder, her hair spilling over his chest, and it's so peaceful, so oddly sweet, his heart twists hard in his sternum because it's all of her, never just one thing, just - it's perfect. It's all perfect.

"You think we should head back?" she asks after a moment.

He chuckles weakly, manages to tuck himself back into his pants, sets one hand on the wheel while he looks around. Lucky no police drove by. "Yeah."

She hums low in her throat, eyes dancing. "You know, I really love this car."

He turns the key in the ignition, grins at her. "Just the car?"


End file.
